


it ain't left to chance that we'd win

by carmen



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Anal Sex, Community: bbcmusketeerskink, First Time Bottoming, M/M, Marking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 15:07:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1230994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carmen/pseuds/carmen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows what it looks like when a man is lying about what he wants, when he's playing a part. And d'Artagnan isn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it ain't left to chance that we'd win

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/774.html?thread=4614#cmt4614).

He knows what it looks like when a man is lying about what he wants, when he's playing a part. He's had to play a part all his life, and he's not doing a half-bad job of it now; he can certainly tell feigned modesty from the real thing, or the sham of reluctance from the authentic article. Surely any infiltrator would want to flatter himself as the inexperienced type, too good for this sort of rough use, offering token protests, feigning disgust. At the very least, pretending he's too sloppily drunk to resist the abuses of such a beast as Vadim. 

By the time he's got him with his breeches down bent over the table the boy isn't pretending any more. 

He grinds against his cock prettily as any whore; the flushed head of it nudges at the dark juncture between his legs. Vadim twists his fingers in his hair to keep his head down; to the boy's credit he doesn't squeak, though his dark eyes go wide with alarm, maidenly lashes flashing against his cheeks. For all his sweet face he's randy like an animal - it had only taken a few caresses to get him unlaced. If only all agents of the crown were as pliant as this one. 

Vadim thrusts his fingers in the boy's mouth, bracing to be bitten (how any infiltrator seeks to deny _this_ accommodation, having already gone so far with the deed, is beyond him) and instructs him to spit; the boy does, obviously knowing what's best for him. He'd rather not fuck him bloody; he'd stab the lad in the back if he'd turn a better profit for it or to save his own skin, but in the meantime he'll save him a sorer ass than strictly necessary, his enthusiasm is endearing. He's known whores who spend long and storied careers playing the curiosity-racked virgin, but there's no reluctance here that he can see, it's all fallen away. 

He eases into him, first with blunt fingertips (to which the young man responds well, though with initial surprise) and soon after a bigger, blunter cock. Even eased with some degree of slickness, he can feel him hitching against it, before something in him grows accustomed to the idea of getting fucked and lets him in.

At first he fears the boy will balk; he hasn't endeared himself to the women he's bedded with his wits and sympathetic manner alone, and the thought of him shuddering and crying out with his cock inside him fit to tear him in two is a pleasant one, it won't get him anywhere good. 

"You all right there, boy?" he says. The Gascon gasps his assent.

His lean dark body is braced, but he arches his back and presses into him so greedily that it's nearly unbearable. He works his body against him in a way that welcomes rougher sport. Perhaps a man might be justified, then, in picking up the pace, starting with a few long slow strokes and working up to short shocks of vigor, hips slamming against that pretty rump and sending shudders of pleasure through him judging from the sounds he makes, a series of little _oh!_ s, quite surprised. Modest, for a shameless Gascon. Every thrust presses him against the rough tabletop and making him wince just slightly, though not with pain as such. If the boy's ever been fucked before, color Vadim surprised, but he seems to be well suited for it -- having gone from punishingly tight for the first few strokes to open and ready for him, even slicked with his own spit and stretched beyond capacity. 

Vadim could take his time like this, savoring the sharp slap of flesh against flesh, the smell of sweat and steel and seamy leather -- and gunpowder, acrid. 

He adjusts his position and shifts his grip to the boy's waist, releasing the undoubtedly-painful grasp on his hair -- not for concern for the boy, certainly, but maddened by the chafing tightness of him with his own satisfaction so close to hand and yet just out of reach, twisting in his belly. The boy's sweet mouth turns in an involuntary grimace, the muscles of his back knotting up; Vadim nuzzles at his shoulder through his sweat-damp shirt, catching with his teeth. He's buried up to the hilt in him, driven in deeper with every thrust. 

His thighs are trembling with strain, and Vadim can hardly bear his own weight like this, slamming into him and jerking back. He nudges his taut legs apart further with his knee in order to get a better angle still, the boy's boots scraping on the ground. 

"How's this?", he says, to no one in particular, and the boy's response is a thin groan. Vadim fumbles around in front him only to meet with an odd sense of disappointment. He must have come some time before, without Vadim so much as laying a finger on his prick; his spilled seed marks the tabletop, his cock already hardening up again with a resilience that can only come of youth. 

Shortly after and without further adieu he feels himself coming unhitched as well, the cruel trick of a climax tugging its way out of him. Vadim swears. He pulls out and comes _on_ him rather than in him, squarely in the slippery cleft of his buttocks; it's distinctly impolite but it'll give him something to remember him by, even if it's only an ache and a mess.

The Gascon voices no objections or offense, only a series of heavy sighs, struggling to catch his breath. Everything taut in him goes slack, out of some recognition that they've finished or at least come to a pause, now's the time for shame to surge in, or remorse, or some other hateful thing from a spy for hire, little better than a whore anyway. (He'd been especially pretty in chains, there could be no doubt.)

He nevertheless knows what it looks like when a man has wanted it; slumped as he is now, he looks unambiguously well-fucked, hair in tangles and plastered in sweat. Liar or no, the sight has certain charms.


End file.
